HOT MUSTARD

McDonaldsHotMustard

I walked down the way to the neighborhood McDonald’s like I did every day. It wasn’t too far. I was very lucky to live within walking distance of the burger establishment. The day was nice enough. A bit hot, but there was a cool breeze catching in the trees of late summer. It seemed as if the heavens were smiling down upon me.

I walked into the McDonald’s and saw people all around me. Some were smiling as they ingested their reasonably priced burgers but some of them looked less than happy. I walked to the counter where Jim, a nice young man who regularly helped me with my daily transaction, smiled at me and said

“Hey Al, how are you doing today? Welcome to McDonald’s,”

“Thanks, Jim. I’ll just have my usual,”

“A Big Mac combo?”

“Yeah, super-sized,”

“Well, Al, we don’t do super-sized anymore, but I can make it a large for you?”

“Large is fine,” I said, “I just really like saying ‘Super-Sized’,”

Jim took my five dollar bill and exact change and gave me my receipt which I crumpled and put in my pocket.

“Here’s your cup, Al,”

“Thanks, Jim,” I said, snatching the cup from his hand, I went over to the soft drink dispenser and filled my cup with very light ice and 48 ounces of ice cold Coca-Cola. I grabbed a large lid and a straw. I unwrapped half off the straw and then blowing into the straw, shot the other half of the wrapper into the trash. From there, I went back over to the lobby and waited, my arms crossed for my burger and fresh French fries.

I watched a lady and her son gather their food as they called out her order. She got a chicken wrap with a large French fry and her son had gotten a happy meal with chicken nuggets. The woman guided her son to a booth and they began to eat.

A skinny man who had rung up just as I had entered the McDonald’s came up to gather his four Spicy McChicken Sandwiches. I was marveled that such a skinny guy could eat so much food!

Then I heard them call my order out. BIG MAC AND LARGE FRENCH FRY? I went to gather my lunch and said to the lady behind the counter,

“Excuse me, miss? Can I get some hot mustard to dip my French fries in?”

The woman looked at me sadly with a smirk.

“You know, I’m very sorry, but we don’t have hot mustard sauce any longer. They discontinued it,”

“What?” I said, “There must be some sort of mistake. You see, I get hot mustard sauce everyday to dip my fries into. Are you sure you’re not just out?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, sir. We simply don’t have it anymore.”

Her voice sounded slower each second. I could hear my heart thumping in my ears and my hands shaking. A great red rage began to overcome me as the woman behind the counter looked at me, her eyes filled with terror.

“You have to have some back there somewhere?”

“I’m really very sorry, sir. We are all out,”

“You can’t be all out!” I yelled, “You just can’t be!”

“I could get you some barbecue sauce, sir? The French fries are very good in barbecue sauce?”

“I don’t want the barbecue sauce! I want the hot mustard sauce! I come here everyday!”

It was then the anger overtook me. I threw my tray of food behind the counter and screamed ferociously as a coffee pot was shaken off the counter and crashed onto the floor.

“I want my hot mustard!” I yelled again, punching my fist into the Coca-Cola drink machine and knocking over the lids and straws, the salt and pepper and the little packets of ketchup. Some people began heading for the door, as others out on the patio looked in intrigue. I could feel their eyes on me as great globs of sweat began pouring down my face.

“I come here everyday!”

A manager came out from behind the counter, his hands out in front of him as he said to me,

“Sir, I’m very sorry, but I’m going to need you to calm down. You are being out of line. I’m sure we can solve this in a rational manner or I’m going to have to ask you to leave,”

“ALL I WANT IS MY HOT MUSTARD FOR MY FRENCH FRIES! THAT’S ALL I WANT!”

I felt my hand curl up into a stone fist and saw myself swinging at the manager. Next thing I knew he was out cold, as the rest of the restaurant exited out the door. I began flipping tables, I threw a chair threw the window where there was an ad for a new burger sandwich. I could see the red in my fists. I jumped over the counter and shouted my demands again to them employees. I grabbed a teenaged employee by the red polo and demanded that he find me hot mustard. I threw him down and he crawled out the drive-through window in fear for his life.

“HOT MUSTARD!” I said, “I COME HERE EVERYDAY!” I said, throwing the deep fryer onto the floor as cornered employees screamed in terror. “I DESERVE HOT MUSTARD!” I said. “I NEED HOT MUSTARD!”

I pulled the drawers of burgers out, I swiped the mess off the counter as I lurked closer and closer to the cornered workers.

“It’s not our fault!” they said to me, but I knew better than that. They worked for McDonald’s. They were McDonald’s. They were keeping the hot mustard all for themselves. They looked at me like I was the devil himself, but I knew I was in the right here. The customer is always right. I yelled it at them.

“The customer is always right!” I yelled. I was a hero, standing up for my rights. You can’t just give someone something they love then take it away from them. That’s not fair. I approached them even closer my breaths ugly and harsh now on their faces.

“Please don’t hurt us,” said one brave employee desperately, wearing their McDonald’s employee visor, “Here, here’s a coupon for a free Big Mac combo.”

“Oh, that would be great,” I said, taking the coupon and exiting the McDonald’s. The day really was nice enough. A bit hot, but there was a cool breeze catching in the trees of late summer. Maybe tomorrow I would go back and try the Sweet and Sour sauce.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2014

READ “IN REALITY”

About these ads

CALL FOR BLOGGERS

Hi Everyone:

First off, thank you all so much for your support of 02.2013. In my opinion, it was a great success. It was very interesting forcing myself to write something each day, and doing something I really like to, which is trying to widen the spectrum of my poems as much as possible.

Now, I’m beginning work on a new project, which I’m going to give a working title of ANT Magazine, until I have an official title.

I am looking for motivated to people to work for this blog and I am looking for a wide variety of things.

I have decided to drive this blog/ online magazine from the idea that bloggers can post what they want/ when they want. I want my bloggers to have the freedom to do as they please, because I want them to have fun, and in turn, for the blog to be fun. Thus far, I have a couple poets signed on, photographers, artists, and even a pair of guys who are going to write about bad b-movies. Here’s some ideas of what else I’d be looking for.

  • Reviewers (Music, Movies, Book, Calendars, Gyms, Restaurants, Starbucks locations, I don’t care)
  • Artists (I don’t care if you make GIFs,or intricate water paintings or digital art, I could be looking for what you have. I’d really even like to have a talented doodler.)
  • Alt Lit People (If you don’t know what alt lit is, this one doesn’t apply to you. If you do, I want your poetry, I want your memes, I want your short stories.)
  • Film (I am really looking for good youtubers to post videos to the site. Once again, open-minded to what you got. I would love some funny videos.)
  • Photographers (I would love photographers whose pieces stand alone and I would also love photographers who if I said “take me pictures related to “night” or “fourth of July” could deliver them in about a week. Experience does not matter. Talent and motivation do.
  • I would really like to have someone to write on feminism on the blog, as this is a topic that is very important to me.
  • Anything else. If you hula hoop, and want to post instructional hula hoop videos, I’d like you to apply. If you sing and play guitar, send me your videos. If you are a badass list maker or nutritionist or tech geek, I’d like you to apply.

IMPORTANT NOTE! You do not have to be American. I want this blog to have a global community and other cultures and countries are not only requested to apply, but I insist they do. I do have to ask that you can write English though. I’m sorry.

Most of all, I want people sharing their passions. I’m trying to make a community out of this. I want my bloggers interacting with our readers. I want people to have a reason to come back, and I want this to be a blog about sharing with the world, not making money. (haha… blogs making money.)

If you are interested, please send me something about yourself and an example of what you have to offer to bricemaiurro@gmail.com.

I hope everyone interested will apply.

Thank you,

Brice

FEATURED POET: ANNA SERAFINI

god drowned himself in a bathtub fully clothed while my heart sunk further into my chest

last night i got a cup for my tears and drank them all down.
they tasted like salt. it was gross.

here is me looking at you and slipping under the water table
so i can drown and be buried alive at the same time.
my air goes blub blub blub and i am choking.
no one can hear me and that’s okay.
i tie a bag over my head because i don’t want anyone
to hear me choking,
and i whisper to myself
“it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay”
as the bag fills with water and dirt.

i jab the back of my mouth with the head of my toothbrush.
i need a new one because the bristles
are sticking together and hardening, i think.
i am trying to brush the taste of salt off of my tongue
but it lingers like the frustrating stain on my sweater.

now my stomach has seized up and i am ignoring my responsibilities.
i bury myself in my blankets and try not to think of anything.
the fantasies of warm boys with soft hands have soured, i think.

i need to get off tumblr.
i need to do something productive.
i need to get better grades.
i need to keep my job.
i need to take harder classes.
i need to rehearse for my poetry slam.
i need to rehearse for my poetry slam.
i need to rehearse for my poetry slam.

oh my god oh my god oh my god
i’m so sorry.

please give me a shovel for christmas i am digging
a hole down to the water table and it will be okay,
i promise, everything will be okay.

ANNA SERAFINI IS THE WORLD’S SHYEST INTERNET “PERSONALITY” AND THE BABY COUSIN OF ALT-LIT. FOLLOW HER ON TUMBLR AND TWITTER.

INTERESTING IN SUBMITTING A POEM TO FLASHLIGHT CITY BLUES? FIND MORE INFO HERE.

“CALIFORNIA, STOP SWALLOWING MY FRIENDS” REBLOGGED ON MIKKIANTONIO

A Few Things:

First of all, MIKKIANTONIO reblogged one of my favorite poems I’ve written, “California, Stop Swallowing My Friends.” Check it out HERE.

Second, Flashlight City Blues is now taking poetry submissions. Find more info HERE.

If neither of these things interest you, look at a picture of my cat Gus HERE.

ROY G. BIV

in the beginning
everyone said she was crazy
a crazy girl
stay the fuck away from that one

she was off doing her own thing
all the time
like she was creating some way
of enjoying herself
she was trying to build a bunker
to prepare for the shit storm

stay the fuck away from that one

but I’ve never been
a very good listener

she was listening to grindcore pop opera
while she was mopping the floor

she was napping beneath
the register counter

and I came to visit her
and honestly
it was pretty quick moving from there
we acknowledged the insanity in one another
we went crazy together

we purchased a potentially fleeting moment together

and sure enough
every day
someone else goes insane
or as an alternate option
they embrace their own breed of
person

we went crazy together
wrapped in folie au deux
the world had more colors
if only it realized it

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

READ “THEATER #17″

 

“HEROIN CHIC” REBLOGGED ON NATALIE ELIZABETH BEECH BLOG

CHECK IT OUT HERE!

THEATER #17

do you know what it’s like to tear tickets at a podium
standing on the same set of legs for twelve hours?

i do.

do you know what it’s like to make enough popcorn
to feed the swarming, blood-thirsty masses
of horny adolescent locust cows
filtering mercilessly into the concession stand?

to burn a perfect batch of kettle corn, terrified
as the sweet smoke rises towards the fire detectors
and you know if it gets to be too much
that the alarms will sound
and the box office will have to refund
every ticket sold that evening
to the growling sheep ready to pounce at guest services?

to sit alone in a giant room filled with candy
disgustingly suicidal at three in the morning
counting pieces of stale sour strips by the pound
when all you want is to go home
and die for a day or two in your warm bed?

to wear a three-piece-suit in a congested concession stand
making popcorn bites and overpriced pizzas
while your sixteen-year-old cohorts jack off behind you?

to hold the door for the smiley motherfuckers coming out
of rancid movie theaters leaving behind used condoms
and the scent of bad chainsaw-slasher-horror-movies
and pubescent screams like sadistic adolescent dry humps
in the back of minivans?

to digest a three-course-meal of super nachos
topped with synthetic guacamole
and diluted jalapenos
and insecure sour cream and cheese
that turns to stone in your lower intestines
that you eat on a ten minute grace period
between cleaning monster theaters
where children find ways of getting sour patch kids
and malted milk balls stuck on the ceiling?

to tell the new hires to go get more ice mix
or to only scrub the yellow squares of the carpet
because they’re the only ones that get dirty
or to tell them to go clean theater seventeen
because haha, there’s only sixteen theaters here?

to escape from the cinematic madness to the back room
where the drink compressors hiss
and the dishwasher gargles
and there’s a starry-eyed girl waiting there
and in the midst of gladiator battles and spaceship races,
there is a moment of nothing

where the universe puts its phones on silent
and you too can kiss like you think you know what love is?

to run the satellite food station on a tuesday night
which means you have plenty of free time
to contemplate why you need a second food staion
open a god-forsaken tuesday night?

to have your boss pull you aside to tell you
that you can’t show up to work drunk anymore
and it’s okay if you’re late
just call.

to lock up the front doors at closing
and then to unlock the arcade games
so you and your stupid coworkers can play pinball
and DDR to your little infantile heart’s content
and little known fact -
the high scores on the arcade games at the movie theater
are held by the employees of said movie theater.

to walk to the last bus in the streetlight twilight
with a black trash bag full of popcorn
that keeps you company on the lurking ride home?

to be a ghost in the projector room
to be God flashing images of everylife and eternal heartbeat
onto the anorexic white screen of pure truth?

to sit in a GMC Jimmy at four in the morning
listening to song ADD with a sweet girl
who happens to be your boss
who you like to make out with -
who cares?!
the movie theater isn’t exactly your five-year-plan?

to go talk to the widowed ticket-taker
who hugs you with her eyes
and tells stories the way stories are meant to be told
between two people
instead of between a gaggle of morons
and a billion dollar budget?

to be stuck in the money room
starving for food and moonlight
but you aren’t leaving
until one hundred dollars finds itself?

to go home smelling like decaying sugar
and italian sodas and superficial butter and sweat
and the dead babies living in the squeaky movie theater seats
and coke and diet coke and icees, yeah, blue raspberry icees
and all-beef hot dogs and so much drama
and it was the worst job ever and it was yes.

just yes.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO

READ “WENDOVER, UTAH”